


straight to the heart please

by Poe



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood, Blood Drinking, Dubious Consent, Frottage, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Vampire Bucky Barnes, Vampires, You know how sometimes there is smut well this is one of those times, blood blood gallons of the stuff give them all that they could drink and it'll never be enough, nonconsensual blood drinking and all that vampire stuff, reuploaded
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-10 11:03:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12910578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poe/pseuds/Poe
Summary: Bucky comes back different. Moves silently, like a cat padding across tiles, his body weight centred despite the enormous weight of his metal arm. Never seems to sleep, retaining those bruised bags under his eyes which Steve half wants to reach out and rub away, like a smudge on a drawing. Before the war, before the Winter Soldier, Bucky had sought contact, casual touches and throwing an arm over Steve's shoulders, until Steve was too tall for that. Now, he flinched away, like a cornered animal, top lip curling upwards into a grimace.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> please take care in re: dub-con and grey morality. vampire bucky isn't necessarily a nice guy. 
> 
> and originally this fic had eleven chapters, but the last chapter was almost as bad as the true blood finale, so now it just has ten, which still works.

                Bucky comes back different. Moves silently, like a cat padding across tiles, his body weight centred despite the enormous weight of his metal arm. Never seems to sleep, retaining those bruised bags under his eyes which Steve half wants to reach out and rub away, like a smudge on a drawing. Before the war, before the Winter Soldier, Bucky had sought contact, casual touches and throwing an arm over Steve’s shoulders, until Steve was too tall for that. Now, he flinched away, like a cornered animal, top lip curling upwards in a grimace.

                He disappears at night, despite the sensors and despite the security protocols, he gets past them all, causing Tony to swear and frantically work on updating them, rewinding and fast-forwarding the tapes, looking for the breach point, but Bucky never shows up on the tapes. However he’s getting out, it’s not being filmed.

                Steve worries, dragging his teeth over his bottom lip, brow furrowed, taking in the vision of the silent man, the man he used to know, who barely speaks but is apparently, apparently, cleared for missions. The missions Bucky is sent on are solitary, no extraction plan, and if he comes home dripping blood, nobody, besides Tony who just had that carpet cleaned, mentions it.

                It is clear then, to Steve at least, that Bucky is still a weapon, albeit under a different title. Bucky does what the others can and would not, doesn’t flinch at the idea of taking more lives. Ideas Steve had of holding Bucky’s hand and guiding him into the new century, easing away shellshock with calm words and easy conversation are disabused and instead Steve feels the same sense of loss he’s carried since the train. Bucky is here. But Bucky is not here.

                Bucky rarely spends time with the other Avengers, and when he does, he is still, controlled, watching and listening, not an active participant in proceedings. Steve wonders how he can be so still, sitting for hours at a time without shifting position, despite how uncomfortable he looks. If Bucky notices Steve staring, he never looks his way.

                It is only when Thor joins them for a meal one evening and Bucky happens to be there that something slots into place. Bucky is sitting, his knees propped up in front of him, on a window seat, looking over the city, and Steve is sketching, sketching the fine lines of Bucky’s form, Bucky who is now the perfect subject, whereas before he wouldn’t stop twitching and shifting as Steve tried to capture him in graphite.

                Thor arrives with a bolt of lightning and it lights Bucky’s face up briefly, marble white against the dim light of the evening. Thor enters through a balcony door, and on seeing Bucky, and it must be for the first time, because he looks momentarily confused, before his eyes alight on Steve, and he claps a firm hand on Steve’s shoulder.

                “Your friend, I have fought against his kind many times, never have I seen such peace in such a creature.” Thor booms, leaving Steve’s drawing marked with a thick, errant pencil line and Bucky looking over at him, daring him to comment.

                Steve, despite what Tony will tell you, is not stupid. Fluent in several languages and capable in several more, with a photographic memory and an appreciation for history and technology in equal measure, he is far more savvy to this century than he lets on. He allows the jibes and jokes because a young brown haired boy with a crooked grin once told him never to show his whole hand. Now he looks at that brown haired boy, all grown up, and wonders what cards he’s holding back.

                It’d be easier if they spoke freely, the way they used to, when conversation would roll from their tongues and they would lose themselves in the ebb and flow of it. Instead there is only silence as Steve looks at Bucky and Bucky at Steve, and each tries to figure out the other first. Questions form and dissolve on Steve’s tongue, and Bucky’s eyes dart wildly, the same blue they ever were, if not ever so slightly lighter.

                “Bucky – “ Steve tries, and that’s as far as he gets, before Bucky has swung himself off the window seat, his silent footsteps leading him out of the room, into the elevator. He is gone before Steve can even stand to stop him. Steve sighs, scratches the back of his head absentmindedly, thinking. He could ask Thor, but Thor speaks in riddles more often than not, his life span separating him from concepts humans understand. Instead Steve finds himself standing by the window, staring out over the same city Bucky had stared at not five minutes before, and he wonders for a moment whether he spots the glint of a silver arm on a rooftop, or whether it’s a trick of his mind, tired and overwhelmed. Leaning his head against the glass, he savours the cool certainty of it, steady against him, until he finds himself able to breathe again, able to think.

                When he finally heads off to sleep, his bare feet slapping quietly against the concrete floor, he dreams of winter nights in Brooklyn, of the shuddering cold and of a boy with brown hair and blue eyes, wrapping himself around him, the heat of his body spreading through Steve’s skin and warming him, easing shivers into nothing, the warmth of Bucky’s breath on Steve’s neck and the way it made the hairs on his nape stand up. He dreams deeply, and on waking, feels all the colder for it, waking up alone and without Bucky’s arm thrown over him, the comforting warm weight of it an anchor as his breath had formed clouds in front of him. Instead the winter sun streams in, and Steve finds himself lost for a second, caught between the skinny wretch he was and the soldier he is today. The dream holds on tight, and takes the rest of the day to fade, and he doesn’t see Bucky once.        


	2. Chapter 2

                Bucky is like a shark in as much as he can smell blood long before he sees it. And the city reeks of it. It’s not just a cliché line, there is blood spilt in alleyways and outside clubs and smeared across roads with the twisted metal of car wrecks. The rust red of it stands out against otherwise dull sidewalks, spat out after a drunken brawl and left as a reminder, invisible to all but a few.

                Bucky sees it all. Sees the city red raw with scraped knees, bleeding, pulsing as its veins strain to contain it. Wants to sink his teeth in and drink it dry. Reminds himself, _never on_ _home soil_.

                Not to say he cannot drink his fill. His easy movement and easy grin and easy way with words all are enough to entice a willing victim away from the crowd, and if he’s too rough and breaks skin as he sucks at their necks, they’ll never remember in the morning, never remember the stranger with eyes that were slightly too pale who whispered words they can’t quite recall in their ears and left them feeling dizzy and slightly out of time.

                They have no idea, as their blood flows metallic and so, so smooth down his throat, how he can taste them, so utterly. An entire life can run in blood. As a soldier, he knows this, having watched men bleed out on battle fields. But there is a variation to each person, a subtle song only their blood sings, and as he drinks he tastes it, tastes their lives and remembers them, because he is able to now, able to remember.

                The Winter Soldier fought with bullets and knives, and only rarely with his teeth. Those few times, the incidents, when a throat was ripped out, when an artery was torn and blood sprayed six foot and decorated the wall like abstract art, they were few amongst many. They did not follow him, did not become any more than whispers within his legend.

                Which is just as well, really.

                If Steve knew, that’d be it, really. If any of the Avengers knew, knew the truth of him, in the stark red of it, that the Red Room was more than aptly named, had created a monster and then allowed it to shape the century, and then America’s heroes had allowed that self-same monster into their homes, into their lives, into their missions, he’d be for a stake through the heart and nothing more.

                Thor had recognised him for what he was.

                Thor had fought his kind. What his ‘kind’ were, he was entirely unsure, Hydra had never been overly forthcoming when it came to information, more allowing him to scrape tid bits where he could until he pieced together something resembling the truth. And the truth was ugly, cruel, and entirely too real.

                A faint pang of hunger ran through him, itching through his veins and he looked around, walking a near empty street, the rain soft against his skin, skin that was cold to the touch, skin he never let anybody touch, skin that betrayed him so easily. The thrum of a nightclub a couple of blocks over reached him, and he headed for the warm bodies, for an easy mark, drunk and confused and more than willing to help scratch that itch.

                He would be lying if he said he despised it. The idea of it, sure. To describe it to somebody, _Steve_ , his mind supplied, would be horrendous, to try to justify it, but the sensation was the closest thing he’d found to perfection throughout his long, long life.

                Standing opposite the night club now, he crooked one knee up behind him, leaning against the door of a store, watching as people periodically fell out in droves, waiting for that one single individual who could be easily removed, just for a moment, just long enough so that Bucky could shake the feeling, the hunger, and be able to function without the thoughts of it running through his brain, gradually devouring him the longer he left it.

                A young man stumbled out, crossing the street without a second glance, and made to walk straight past Bucky, when Bucky murmured ‘Got a light?’, just quiet enough to be misheard, for the man to backtrack and pause.

The man was blond and his hair fell in his eyes, and Bucky hated it when they were blond, and Bucky fixed his gaze on the man, who now stood silent and docile before him, a puppet on strings, and wasn’t that ironic? Bucky’s strings had only just been snipped, but he still employed the tactics of his captors, still allowed himself the ease of a quick hunt, with too pale eyes that mesmerised and then the quick strength that pushed the man into the doorway and against the solid wood of it, and Bucky’s mouth was on his skin, tasting the salt sweat of the night on the man’s throat, and if anyone had been watching, they would have noticed a small shift in Bucky’s features as his upper lip curled to reveal sharp fangs and his eyes turned from that pale blue to pure white with nothing but a stark black pupil foggy in the centre. Bucky allowed his teeth to scrape gently over the delicate skin protecting the pulsing vein, savouring the moment, and he directed a thought to the man, _enjoy this, this is good_ , and the man groaned against him, orgasmic, and like two lovers, they stood as Bucky plunged sharp teeth into flesh and held his lips tight against the coursing of blood that flowed, pulsing, beat by beat, and he sucked each mouthful down, eager and tasting the man’s experiences, his memories, that he had moved here from Florida and had a dog called Jasper and an on-again-off-again partner called Bill who complained about the man leaving the towels on the floor after a shower. But never the man’s name.

                He never got their names. That part remained elusive, hidden from him. The man arched against him, grinding his erection against Bucky’s leg, and Bucky allowed it, it was the least he could do. As the man cried out, Bucky pulled his lips away, licking the man’s neck clean with one quick sweep of his tongue, and then he commanded the man to _forget_ , to _walk away_ , to _go home to Bill and Jasper_. And sated, Bucky sagged against the doorway as the man did just that, Bucky running his tongue over his teeth, finding the last slivers of metallic liquid between them.

                Nobody looked at him twice as he sauntered off, as though he were any other man, even though his arm shone in the street lights. _It’s what you want people to see,_ he thought, knowing that a quick glance at him revealed nothing more than a shadow. It’s easy to be a ghost when you don’t have a face.


	3. Chapter 3

                “We are not having this conversation, Steve.” Bucky grinds out when Steve finally corners him after two days of searching. Despite living in the same building, Bucky is elusive, Steve supposes seventy years as an assassin lost on the wind will do that to a person.

                So when he finds Bucky, sprawled out on the length of the couch they share in the communal area of their floor, head tilted to watch, Steve’s eyes flick over, catch a glimpse of red blood and gore, and then piece together that Bucky’s still on his Hannibal marathon, and now Bucky’s glaring at him, because he’s interrupted him and because Steve has Questions and Bucky really does not have time for this.

                He sees the way Steve looks at him. Well. There are two ways Steve looks at him. One is the lost puppy that’s just found its owner again look, and Bucky wants to scream at him that the creature Steve sees before him isn’t Bucky, isn’t the boy he grew up with, the man he fought side by side with. And the other look is one of worry and confusion, and whilst Stark may have written Steve off as a befuddled old man in a young man’s body, Bucky knows differently.

                Steve settles in an armchair, not too close, but close enough to set Bucky’s nerves on edge. He pauses Hannibal, sighing, and looks at Steve, who looks back at him, and it’s a mix of the two looks, half puppy dog, half the tension of not knowing.            

                “Bucky, if you want to talk to me. I haven’t spoken to Thor. But what he said. I can’t stop thinking about it. Was it just a Thor thing, or was there something to it?” Steve blurts out, because the silence is killing him.

                Bucky huffs out a cold laugh.

                “Wow, Steve. You want my measurements too? What colour underwear I’m wearing?” He replies, deflecting.

                It doesn’t work. Steve knows him too well. Worth a shot.

                “You know what I’m asking.” Steve says, calm, but buzzing under the surface, Bucky can tell, by the way his shoulders are too tense and he’s making himself small, as though a six foot two super soldier can possibly be small, but Steve forgets, and it makes Bucky’s heart clench. But he shakes his head.

                “Do _you_ know what you’re asking? Really?” Bucky asks. He raises an eyebrow. Steve bites his lip. Bucky really wishes he wouldn’t do that.

                Steve shifts, his body awkward.

                “Come on, Steve, use your words. How’re we going to do this? You heard what Thor said. He’s fought against… people like me. Isn’t that enough? Can’t that be enough?” Bucky wishes his words didn’t sound like begging.

                “Buck, Bucky, I’m just. I got you back. I mean, the world got you back. And I thought, god, I thought we could, that we’d face this together. Nobody else understands, not really. To wake up in the twenty first century and to be completely alone, and then realise you’re not. How can anybody relate to that? They said – they said it’d be hard at first, but it’s been months now, Buck. Why won’t you talk to me? What is it? What’s so terrible that I can’t help you?”

                Bucky screws his face up against the words, shoving his hair back off his forehead. It’s a damn nervous habit and he’s had it longer than most people in the tower have been alive, and it’s a tell Steve has picked up on and he hates how Steve can be so perceptive but look so, so goddamn wholesome and like, hey, this is just a conversation. Natalia might have mocked Steve’s undercover abilities, but to give the guy a break, he’s perceptive. Too perceptive.

                “You know what I did, you read the files.” Bucky says carefully.

                Steve shakes his head.

                “No.” He says. “This is something that isn’t in the files. This is something else.”

                “How’d you figure that, punk?” And the nickname just slips out, like old times, and Bucky realises this is the longest conversation they’ve had since before he died and ain’t that just dandy?

                “Because, jerk, I know you. And yeah, you’re different. I get that. I get a lot of things. I get that you’re not James Buchanan Barnes, born 1917 who saved me in an alleyway one time, and then every time after that, even though I totally had it under control. And I know you’re not the same Bucky who served with me in the 107th. And I know you’re not The Winter Soldier either. I get that. I get that you’re a mix of all those men. And you’re something new, as a result of that. And I’m okay with that. I want to know you, you now. Because I figure you can’t be all that bad. I want to _get_ you. I’m trying, Buck, so hard. But you’re closing me down at every turn and I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this. You were the best friend I ever had. God, it sounds stupid but sometimes I’d look at you and the world would stand still. And it felt like everything would be okay. But now I look at you, and it doesn’t feel like that. And I guess, in some selfish way, I need that feeling back. So I’m being selfish, Buck, I need you to give me something here. What is it that you don’t want me to know? Because there’s nothing you can tell me I can’t handle. I promise. Because you’re you, and I’m me, and it’s still ‘til the end of the line. It always has been. But you have to help me out.”

                Steve seems to slump after his speech, and Bucky’s mind races as he tries to find words which will obscure, delay the inevitable. Steve is Captain Fucking America, and Bucky is… a monster utilised by Hydra until such a time he was no longer useful. He has killed people because he was ordered to. And he has killed people because he has needed to.

                He gets up, moves over to the kitchen where a bowl of fruit sits on an island counter. He picks up an apple, tosses it in the air before moving back to the couch and biting down on the fruit, and yes, he can eat, thank you very much. Also, sunlight? Obviously not an issue as he is currently not on fire. But the apple tastes vaguely of cardboard and not like he remembers from his youth. All food tastes of cardboard. It’s bland and unappetising and there’s no need to eat, no desire to. The only desire is for the blood, and that’s not something he’s about to share with Steve.

                Steve watches him eat, as though he’ll finish the apple and then spill all his secrets. Like it’s that easy. _Rumours of my cryogenic freezing have been greatly exaggerated, I actually just don’t age_. That wouldn’t spark a shit storm or anything. _The reason my arm doesn’t rip out my spine is because my body is constantly, constantly healing around it_. Yeah, faster healing abilities than Captain America. That’s a one way trip back to SHIELD’s laboratories. _I have to drink blood not to survive per se, but it certainly helps with the not becoming a desiccated husk of a creature thing_.

                Steve’s still looking at him. Steve must have spent half his life looking at him. Drawing him. Touching him. And now, now that’s something Bucky can’t allow. He has to nip this in the bud.

                “Thor’s wrong. The serum they gave you? They gave me a bastardised version of it. Look, he’s probably a great guy, but he’s not exactly savvy to Nazi technology from the forties. There’s no big mystery. And nice job on the saviour complex, by the way. I’d almost forgotten about that. Same ol’ Steve Rogers. I’m sorry, Steve, really, but I don’t need saving. Look, you think SHIELD would have me out on missions if they thought I wasn’t capable? I don’t need fixing. So I’d appreciate it if you stopped looking at me like your latest charity case.” He unpauses Hannibal and Steve looks away from the scene, uncomfortable with the imagery despite everything. Bucky would laugh, but it’s almost too pathetic.

                Steve stands. Just stands for a moment, drawing himself to his full height. And then just says two words and leaves Bucky feeling exposed and unable to focus.

                “You’re lying.”

                And yeah, yeah he is. Because what choice does he have?


	4. Chapter 4

                It’s all about the heart. This Bucky has learnt over the course of his long life. As long as his heart beats, he stays alive. Should his heart stop, well, it’s game over.

                For centuries, if not longer, it was believed that the heart controlled the body, that it was the heart that thought and loved and the brain was nothing more than so much useless mush. Turns out, there was something to that.

                Bucky’s not one to dispute science (well, that’s a lie, Bucky is a walking example of science being, if not wrong, then somewhat short-sighted). But he knows that for him at least, the heart is the most important organ.

                His uniforms would always hide adamantium plates in front of his sternum and between his shoulder blades, to prevent unwanted attacks. Attack him anywhere else, short of beheading him, and he’d probably bounce back, slightly more angry than you’d like. But the heart. The heart is everything.

                Ancient Egyptians. They got it. They worshipped his kind, even though that bit has been lost to history. They understood, they preserved the heart, and muddled the brains. They didn’t have all the information, couldn’t fix a broken heart, but they hoped, that in the next world, their beloved pharaohs would be raised up once more.

                Going to museums, seeing the mummies, seeing the corpses of his kind, is unnerving. Not that all mummies are vampires. But a trained eye can spot the ones that are. Teeth that are slightly elongated, skin better preserved than others, and hair. If there is hair, usually that means, well, they were like him.

                It feels like a desecration to look at them. How would he like it to be hauled from the grave, some thousand or so years after the fact, to be put on display in a country that wasn’t his own? As a treasure, a prize, rather than as a, well, he’d say human being, but, you’d get his point. It unnerves him. Makes him wonder if one day the Winter Soldier will be one such display.

                When they would put him in cryo, his heart would almost stop. Almost being the vital part. It takes a lot to kill someone like him, and cold temperatures aren’t one of those things. His keepers knew that. They also knew the precise combination of lobotomy and drugs in the blood they fed him to keep him docile, to keep him doing as they wanted. And after seventy years, he had to admit, he stopped fighting. Immortality lost its shine almost immediately, given the circumstances.

                He can count on one hand (ha) the people who know what he is. Who are still alive. Natalia. She must know, or at least suspect. He’s not stupid, and neither is she. But she has kept her cards close to her chest, hasn’t said a word, and he respects that. Respects her, immensely. She is, he believes, one of the few who could best him in a fight, get close enough to drive that stake in, stop his heart.

                If anyone at SHIELD has figured it out, they haven’t said. Granted, they’re running kind of ramshackle these days, so maybe they just haven’t looked over the data properly. But when it comes to medical scans, he appears normal. Colder than average, certainly, faster, yes, though he’s never shown his true potential to anyone who tested him. And healing? It can be explained by the serum. Everything can be explained by the serum if he’s creative enough with the words he chooses.

                Explaining that the serum was a three hundred year old vampire, weakened by lack of blood and forced to drip blood into the mouth of a dying soldier, a dying soldier that could see his arm several feet away and was trying to understand how that was possible, black scudding his vision as he looked at the limb and then at this creature that pressed its wrist to Bucky’s mouth, and the command to drink.

                The second the blood hit his tongue, he couldn’t help himself. Almost immediately he felt his body change, heal, and he gripped the creature’s wrist with his one good hand and drank deep, as though given the nectar of the gods right there on the rocks that had broken his back.

                And then, everything had gone dark. Because the change kills you. There’s no way around that. Bucky Barnes is officially dead. His heart may beat and he may breathe (though he has no particular need to), but he is a walking corpse. So he died, there, blood still staining his teeth, and he woke up to a metal arm and the demands of Hydra. And then he was a weapon.

                He never saw the man who changed him again. He used to wonder whether they’d staked him after the job was done. He doesn’t wonder anymore. There is little use in sentiment.

                Except.

                He remembers Brooklyn. He remembers Steve Rogers. He remembers curling up together at night when Steve’s body faltered in the freezing temperatures. He remember Steve’s breath on the nape of his neck.

                The memories came back quickly. Quicker than he let on. It would have been quicker still if he’d had access to the blood, but even stunted, his healing was fast. His brain rebuilt itself. And it threw every damn thing he’d ever done right back at him. And then it threw Steve Rogers at him.

                Which was a problem.

                When he’d been a kid in Brooklyn, and Steve had been some scrap of a boy, he’d loved him then. And when Steve had appeared, a vision of muscle and strength, he’d realised he still loved him. And he’d tamped those feelings down because dammit, it was the forties and that sort of thinking could have got him kicked out of the army or worse. And Steve had it bad for that Peggy, and he wasn’t going to stand in the way of Steve having a normal life. Even at the cost of his own.

                Sentiment. It gets you nowhere.

                And now? Now he looks at Steve and his heart beats in double time. Seventy years and brain washing and becoming _this_ , none of it dampened the feelings. Which is a damn shame, to say the least. Because to want something you can’t have is unbearable enough.

                But the worst of it? Knowing that he will never age and Steve will. Knowing that one day, maybe soon, maybe in fifty years, he’ll stand by Steve’s grave and that’ll be the last piece of him that was human, buried in the ground. Fifty years doesn’t seem enough time. It doesn’t seem fair. Bucky finds himself lying awake, and he wonders if he’s selfless enough to let that happen.

                So he avoids Steve. Avoids the questions. Because he doesn’t know, if he gave Steve the choice, what his answer would be. A normal person? Given the option to stay young and healthy forever? They’d bite his hand off, no matter the cost. But Steve? Steve may be impulsive, reckless, but beneath all that there’s a rational brain and furthermore, Steve would never hurt anyone. Bucky’s thoughts stray to imagining Steve, his eyes whited out and his teeth extended, blood dripping from his mouth, and he’s concerned that the image arouses him so. There’s something primal within him that finds it unbearably erotic, to imagine Steve like himself, to imagine Steve feeding and then pulling Bucky to him, kissing him rough and hard, the blood mixing in their mouths.

                And that is why he stays away from Steve.

                Sentiment’ll get you killed. Or it’ll kill every good thing you have. Either way, it’s worthless to dwell upon it.


	5. Chapter 5

                Steve is following him. Or attempting to. It’s not that Steve lacks stealth, but Bucky knows him, knows his scent, could pick him out of a crowd of thousands. So Steve may be moving as silently as a man his size can, but Bucky is well aware of him.

                It’d almost be amusing, except he has to feed.

                Being cooped up in the Avengers tower without a mission, without an excuse to fly out of the country, it drives him stir crazy. He is not alone in this, tracking the movements of the other Avengers, who find distraction in movies, sparring, or, well, eating.

                Maybe it’s some semblance of who he once was that boredom makes him hungry. Huh.

                But Steve is following him and he has considered his options carefully and come up with nothing of any use. He is supposed to have the same abilities as Steve, which means he cannot allow Steve to see him scale a building to shake him, or to simply vanish into the night. And whilst a part of him whispers that he could attempt to mesmerise Steve he’s both not entirely sure it’d work, and well aware that his self-control is somewhat lacking. So.

                Part of him wants Steve to see. Wants Steve to see him drink from some guy or girl who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. To see his best friend with a mouth full of blood. That’d make it real, wouldn’t it? It’d certainly break the stalemate.

                At the tower, Steve continues to look at him, though they haven’t spoken again. But it’s like being on display, all the time, and Bucky can’t stand it. He doesn’t need to work out, but has taken to going to the gym and working his way through various routines with ease, the monotony of repeated motions boring enough to drive Steve away and calm Bucky down.

                Steve is half a block away and about as inconspicuous as a flare burning in the night.

                Bucky stops walking. Just stands still in the street. It’s empty apart from the pair of them, and rain falls gently, but it’s the kind of rain that soaks through. It feels good on his skin and as he stands there he allows the sensation to numb him.

                Footsteps, no longer silenced, come up behind him. Steve stands a foot or so behind Bucky, and Bucky can hear the rhythm of his heartbeat, strong, like the rest of him. The perfect human being, crafted out of chemicals and the boy from Brooklyn who never knew when to quit.

                Bucky is perfectly still. He wants to see what Steve will do. Whether he’ll approach him or try talk this out without eye contact. He finds his answer almost immediately, as Steve steps forward, and places a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, pulling him round to face him.

                Steve’s hair is soaked, making it seem darker than it really is, and his eyes are near black from the dim of the streetlights. So many years ago, Bucky would usher him inside, out of those wet clothes before he caught his death. Now? Now Bucky just looks up at him, and damn near a century of life on this earth hasn’t given him words to say.

                “Bucky.” Steve breaks the silence. Steve was always the braver of the two of them. Bucky doesn’t respond. Just looks at Steve through his dripping wet hair and feels again that throb of hunger. Dammit.

                Steve’s hand on his shoulder is warm, and it radiates through the layers of Bucky’s clothing as though Steve is touching his bare flesh. Warmth is the blood. There’s no warmth to the dead.

                Steve’s eyes search his, and he’s worrying his lip again and Bucky wishes he wouldn’t do that because it makes his brain short circuit momentarily, makes him want to plant his lips there instead, and bite and pinch the reddened plumpness of them.

                The hunger throbs again and Bucky acts on instinct. He uses a portion of his strength to shove Steve against a wall, and with his metal hand, grabs Steve’s from his shoulder and raises it above their heads, holding it firm against the bricks. Bucky’s mouth finds Steve’s as though it was always meant to, and he kisses Steve as though it’s his last chance.

                He copies the worrying motion of Steve’s teeth and Steve’s mouth falls open with a groan, and Bucky has a moment to think “Oh” before Steve’s tongue is pressing against his and it’s not like the soft kisses he imagined in his youth, it’s hard and it’s brutal and it’s so many years of pent up anger and resentment and lust and it almost hurts as Steve grinds his hips against Bucky’s, as the warmth of Steve’s body seeps through once again and it’s the best worst thing Bucky has ever experienced.

                Steve drags his free hand through Bucky’s sodden hair, pulling him closer, and Bucky deepens the kiss further, and he knows he doesn’t need to breathe, but Steve is taking small gasps of air where he can, and neither of them is willing or possibly able to separate.

                Steve is hard against Bucky’s thigh, and Bucky’s own erection aches. Steve grinds against him again, centring his body against Bucky, and the friction of it makes Bucky whine, deep in his throat and Steve, dammit, Steve laughs into Bucky’s mouth, a huff of warm air.

                Bucky’s metal fingers must be leaving bruises on Steve’s elevated wrist, but Steve doesn’t fight it for a second. He bucks his hips as Bucky trails his right hand down the back of Steve’s body, coming to rest on Steve’s perfect ass, and Bucky pulls him closer, and they fit as though they were designed to, and Steve whimpers, and Bucky can tell he’s so close, and Bucky is too, and so he shifts his hips in sync with Steve’s, and it’s Steve that loses it first, Steve whose knees go weak as he cries out, and the sound of it finishes Bucky off, and he squeezes his eyes closed, riding the sensation. He’d forgotten how good it could be. It’s primal and ancient like the blood, and he opens his eyes and Steve is looking at him anew, and Bucky releases his arm, and Steve rubs his wrist where finger shaped indentations mar it, purple bruises fresh and vivid.

                Bucky would apologise, but can’t find it within himself. He knows the bruises will fade quickly enough. And they’re better than the alternative, better than torn bites on Steve’s throat.

                The hunger is sated for now. For now they just stare at each other, Steve breathing more quickly than usual. Bucky is sure Steve is working up to a big speech in his head, but instead Steve huffs out another laugh, his breath forming clouds in the cold night air as he speaks.

                “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that for.” He shakes his head. And okay, maybe Bucky’s a little slow on the uptake, because suddenly the sheer amount of looking Steve has been doing makes more sense. Bucky can’t help but grin back.

                “You’d have said something, we could have been doing this years ago.” He replies.

                Steve massages the bruises on his wrist again, before running a hand through his hair.

                “I’m soaked, you’re soaked. You coming back to the tower?” He asks.

                And Bucky shrugs, because it’s the best of all possible outcomes. Steve has forgotten why he was following Bucky, and it turns out there’s a way to quell the hunger. Steve fuckin’ Rogers to the rescue again. Bucky shakes his head.

                Steve looks at his quizzically. “What?”

                “Nothing.” Bucky says. “Just, you always were such a punk.”

                They walk back to the tower shoulder to shoulder, and it almost feels like old times. They split up to take separate showers, but Steve finds Bucky before they head off to separate bedrooms, and presses a soft kiss to Bucky’s lips, nothing like the ones before.

                When he pulls back, he raises a hand to Bucky’s cheek, stroking a thumb across his cheekbone.

                “You’re so cold.” He says simply.

                Bucky thinks fast. “After that, you didn’t take a cold shower too?” And it’s a shit excuse, but Steve seems to buy it. They go their separate ways, because what happened isn’t exactly fleshed out into a Thing yet, and Bucky falls into a dead sleep.

                He’s awakened three hours later by the grip of the hunger, and this time, when he leaves the tower, he listens at Steve’s door first, to the deep, even breathing, before slipping out into the night.

                And when he drinks from the girl in the alleyway, it feels like a betrayal. And that brief flame of humanity he felt as Steve’s body had warmed his is extinguished, and he returns to the tower feeling every bit the monster.


	6. Chapter 6

                The only reason she manages to get the drop on him is because he’s thinking (not sulking, or brooding) about Steve. But he’s shoved further into the sofa by her body weight and a knife points at his heart, already tearing the fabric of his t-shirt. Natalia looks at him from her position above him, and whilst he could fight her off, could kill her, and she knows it, because she pushes the knife in closer and it’s sharp enough to make him hiss in pain, he’s curious.

                She backs off, shoves a newspaper at him.

                “Did you do this?” She asks, indicating the headline. Front page.

                “ **Body found in alleyway drained of blood, police launch full investigation.** ”

                He looks at the photo of the crime scene, and no, he didn’t do that. He never kills on American soil. During missions abroad, well, things can get a little sketchier. But never on home turf. That’s the rule. The most important rule.

                Not counting The Steve Rule, which is in effect as of last night, which goes something along the lines of ‘no contact, no touching, no kissing, no fucking, and definitely absolutely no biting’. Hence the brooding.

                He shakes his head at Natalia.

                “I didn’t do this. I swear. I never kill them.”

                “Well somebody did.” She replies. Like it’s his problem. Which, he guesses it is, if there’s a rival… vampire on his patch and they’re killing people, it’s very much his problem. Which sort of sucks, no pun intended.

                “I don’t know, I haven’t seen anything, have you been able to drag anything up?” He asks her, knowing she’ll have already hacked the police database. She’s a little scary like that.

                She hands him a file, which includes a photo of the victim. Shit. It’s the guy he fed off a few nights back. The blond with the on-off boyfriend and the dog. Bucky forces himself to focus, looks at the marks on the man’s neck, the rough tearing of flesh, more like a rabid animal than the small marks he makes. This vampire is young, inexperienced, and hungry. And may have a vendetta against him. Or it’s a huge coincidence.

                “I fed off him.” Bucky puts his cards on the table. Natalia raises an eyebrow. “A couple of nights back, this guy, I fed off him. But I didn’t kill him. Whoever killed him must know or must have intel on me.”

                “You think this is Hydra?”

                “I don’t know if it’s their style. If anything, they’d want me back. Taking me out like this, outing me? It’d be cutting their nose off to spite their faces. No, I don’t know. I swear, if I knew anything – “

                “Yeah, you’d come trotting right up to SHIELD and blurt it all out. I know you James, I knew you. I know what you are, what you’re capable of. And I know how much you want to hide that. So excuse me for bringing this straight to the source.”

                “Thor knows.” Bucky states. “He just arrived and looked at me and knew. I’m guessing he hasn’t blabbed though. And Steve’s suspicious. I don’t know how long I can hide this.”

                “If you hurt Steve – “ Natalia begins.

                “I’d never hurt Steve.” Bucky surges upright, knocking her backwards. She regains her balance quickly but holds the knife tighter.

                “You want to though.” She says.

                “There are a lot of things I want.” Bucky points out.

                “But Steve. You want him. You know you can never have him.”

                “Because he’ll get old and die? I know.”

                “No. Because you won’t let him do that.”

                “I know.”

                “So, what’s he figured out?”

                “He knows I’m lying about the ‘serum’ I received. He was in the room when Thor said he’d fought others of ‘my kind’. He’s not stupid. He followed me last night. I knew he was there, he didn’t see anything, but, he’s close, you know? And I don’t know how he’ll react if he finds out.”

                “Maybe you don’t know Steve as well as you think.” Natalia says carefully.

                “You’ve seen me. Not at my worst, but you’ve seen me in action. You know what I can do. What I’ve done. Steve – Steve sees me through rose tinted glasses, the good old days, Brooklyn and growing up together. Before the war. I don’t think he even sees me as the soldier I was before I fell. He wants me, or he thinks he does. He wants the memory. He wouldn’t want me like this. He couldn’t. He’s too, too good, too Steve. How can I tell him I know what a human life tastes like? Men, women, children, the innocent and the guilty. How can I tell him that I get so fucking hungry I have to sneak out of the tower and drag some poor soul into an alleyway and fucking feed off them. I’m an animal. Maybe you should just put me down.”

                “Steve loves you.”

                “Steve loves an idea.”

                “Look, I can argue with you about this all day, but the fact remains. There is another vampire out there, and they’ve killed someone you’ve fed on. Have you fed since then?”

                “Last night.” Bucky admits. “A girl, outside a club.”

                “You get her name, anything that could help us find her?”           

                “I never get the name, but she lives local, works in a flower shop. Brown hair, but with a sort of pink streak in the fringe. Short, shorter than you.”

                “That’s enough to work with. I’ll get protective detail on her.”

                “Won’t they ask questions?”

                She looks at him.

                “Ask me questions? They know better than that.” She gets up off the end of the sofa, pocketing the knife. She leaves the files and newspaper with him.

                “I’d say keep an ear to the ground, but I’m guessing I don’t need to. If you’ve got any connections, or if you can make any, I’d recommend doing so. Because if this recoils back on you, if someone can make it seem like you’re responsible, if someone exposes you for what you are, you can’t hide behind SHIELD or the Avengers. I know you’d never deny it, because deep down you know, you’re the perfect weapon, James. Imagine what they could, would, do with you. I’ll work my end, you work yours. Hopefully we can stop this before the train derails.”

                She leaves, near silent. He watches her go, the soft swish of her hair. He picks up the autopsy report again, looking at the mess of blood and flesh at the man’s throat, and is disgusted with himself when the hunger calls out. He doesn’t need to feed, he can go days without it. He pushes it down. He closes the report, and gathers it up with the newspaper, takes it to his room and slides it under the mattress. He sinks down and sits on his bed for a long time, the beauty of immortality is the ability to not do anything, to be alone with your thoughts, with no pressing concerns. But he can’t think. His thoughts keep flicking back to last night, to Steve, to Steve’s body pressed against his, and he buries his head in his hands, fingers clenched in his hair.

                Whatever happens, he has completely fucked up. His metal arm twitches and shudders as it recalibrates, and he feels his body shaking along with it.

                There’s someone else like him out there. And maybe it’s a huge coincidence. Or maybe they’re trying to send him a message. Whatever the case may be, he has to stop them.

                In the bottom drawer of his bedside table is an array of knives, stakes and guns. Any one of those would do the trick, aimed correctly. Tonight. Tonight he’ll stalk the streets until he finds his copycat.

                In another life, Steve would have been beside him, on his six. But then, in another life, food still had taste and he had two flesh and blood arms. Times change.


	7. Chapter 7

                He’s suited up in his Winter Soldier gear, adamantium plates carefully placed to protect his heart, an array of knives, stakes and guns hidden on his person, but within easy reach. He looks at himself in the mirror, the weapon, not the man. At least this time his cause is legitimate.

                The sun has barely set. It seems strange to wait, but then, aren’t most crimes committed under the cover of darkness? He prefers to feed at night, the ease of coaxing a drunk or drugged individual to him simplifies things.

                He can’t get drunk, and drugs have no effect on him, unless they’re in the blood. He sobers quickly, but sometimes the hit of chemicals is a nice release. He doesn’t actively seek it, but it makes a change.

                Regardless. He has a mission.

                He sweeps his hair back. Takes another look in the mirror. Sees nothing good there.

                There’s a knock on his bedroom door. He knows it’s Steve.

                “Buck?” Steve calls, and Bucky doesn’t response. He’s made a promise to himself, to protect Steve, and he wishes he could say he was being noble, but really he just doesn’t want to kill his best friend. Is that selfish or selfless? Both, probably.

                Getting no answer, Steve swings the door open carefully, and takes in the sight of Bucky in his leather apparel.

                “You have a mission?” Steve asks and Bucky nods.

                “You need backup?” Steve asks and Bucky shakes his head.

                Steve sighs. After the events of the night before, maybe he expected something. Probably. Definitely. And Bucky’s closed off again, shutters down, nobody’s home.

                Steve moves forward to touch Bucky, running a finger down the leather covering his flesh arm. Bucky wants to break then, wants to give into it. Steve grasps Bucky’s hand, rubbing his thumb against the skin there, and it’s damn unfair.

                Bucky looks away, jerks his hand away from Steve.

                “Jesus, Buck!” Steve says, and his voice is charged, angry. It’s the Steve Bucky remembers from their school days, the punk who would never back down from an argument.

                “Steve, just go.” Bucky sighs, almost to himself. Instead of leaving, Steve sits on Bucky’s bed. He plants his feet firmly on the ground and proceeds to wait Bucky out. It’s an old tactic, and one that invariably works.

                “Steve, I have a mission. I have to leave. There’s someone, someone dangerous, they’re killing people. I have to stop them.” Bucky tries.

                Steve doesn’t move.

                “I was in the briefing Natasha gave. Serial killer type, right? We’ve got protective detail on the suspected next victim. Unless you know something I don’t, you’re not going to find him walking the streets.”

                Steve has no idea.

                “It’s worth a shot.” Bucky says instead.

                “You’d rather be out there – god, of course you would. Nobody’s going to die tonight, Buck. Stop hiding behind the mission. Talk to me.”

                “Says Captain America. Whatever would people say if they knew you were trying to talk me out of catching a serial killer?” Bucky sneered, because cruelty is easier than truth.

                “Catch or kill, Bucky? Because going out with no backup, with the arsenal you’re touting, I’m not expecting to see this guy again. What are they asking you to do?”

                “What nobody else can.” Bucky knows his role, but in this case, it’s the truth. Huh.

                “Natasha kills people. Why isn’t she out there tonight?” Steve keeps pushing.

                Because she’d be killed? Bucky swallows the answer on his tongue.

                “It’s my mission.”

                “And I’m vetoing it. And all future missions until I feel you’re no longer compromised.”

                “ _I’m_ compromised? I fucked you once in the street. How dare you – “

                Steve’s on his feet and in front of Bucky in an instant, his face dark. They’re close enough to kiss. Steve’s breathing is fast.

                “You know this isn’t about that.” Steve grinds out.

                “I don’t believe you.”

                “Seems the feeling’s mutual these days.”

                “Steve.” Bucky draws himself up to his full height, still a few inches off Steve, but enough to intimidate a lesser man. He allows the animal side of himself to puff up, staring straight at Steve. “Let me leave and do my job. Or there’ll be blood on both our hands.”

                Steve doesn’t even flinch. Just looks at him.

                “What did they do to you?” He asks again.

                “I told you. The same thing they did to you.”

                “Stop fucking lying to me, Bucky. I know you. I’m not stupid. You’re different. Cold. Your hand, it was like ice. I – god, Buck, I love you. And maybe that’s fucked up on my part, because you obviously don’t give a shit about me, but at least give me this. You know, I thought, I always thought, we had something. We were Steve and Bucky, you know?”

                “You’ve got a damn rose-tinted idea of me in your head, Rogers. I’m not the man you knew.”

                “You think I don’t know that? You think I can’t see that? You think it doesn’t keep me up at night wondering what they did to you? If it hurt? If I’d have gone back, could I have prevented it? I’ve watched you fall so many times in my nightmares, I can never save you. And now, now I look at you and I know I didn’t save you, you’re living proof. But. But I still love you. And maybe eventually the guilt will go away and I’ll be able to live with myself, for not being faster, for not going back and finding you. But you know one thing that I know? The one thing that feels right amongst all of this? I still love you. I think I’d always love you. So I’m begging you, Bucky, don’t do this. Don’t be this. I know you’re not him, you’re you, here and now, and I’m okay with that. I’m more than okay with that. You have to know that.”

                Bucky watches as Steve’s eyes grow redder and then tears start to fall. Instinctively, he raises a hand to wipe them from Steve’s cheeks. He can’t help it. Steve lets him.

                “If you’d have gone back for me, I’d have died.” Bucky whispers. “They saved my life, in a perverse sort of way.” His heart hammers inside his chest.

                Steve shakes his head. “No.”

                “Honest. Look, you want to see my world? Come with me tonight. You’ll see it. And then you’ll understand. God, you’ll understand everything.”

                “I don’t understand.” Steve says.

                “I know. But you will. Go get dressed, I’ll get you some weapons. The shield won’t cut it this time.”

                “I don’t – “

                “You don’t kill, I know. You won’t have to. You’re just my backup, okay? If I tell you to get the fuck out, you run like hell, okay? Even if it looks like I’m losing. Hell, especially if it looks like I’m losing. You get the hell out and call Natalia and she’ll know what to do.”

                “How is any of this – “

                “Just go, get ready. You’ll see. We’ll find him tonight, and you’ll see.”

                “Buck – “

                Bucky can’t help but press a kiss to the corner of Steve’s mouth, chaste and almost like a goodbye. Steve nods, and turns to leave. Bucky watches him go, knowing that tonight he’ll lose his best friend, lose Steve, the only touchstone he has in this world. But it’s what Steve wants, to know, right? And Bucky’s tired of ducking questions. Tired of lying. Let the world fall around him. Hell, it won’t be the first time.


	8. Chapter 8

                Bucky strides along the street like a machine, like The Soldier, there’s no ease to his gait, it’s rigid, precise. Beside him, Steve is dressed in his black suit, and has almost as many holsters strapped to him as Bucky does.

                Bucky’s on constant alert, the smell of fresh blood, the sweet iron tinge of it in the air, he breathes in and out searching for it. There’s nothing, yet.

                Bucky knows enough about new vampires to know that there’ll be a victim tonight. That they can’t help themselves. He remembers the early days, when he’d woken up and been presented with, dammit, American soldiers to feed on, and how he had barely considered his actions as he’d sunk his teeth in, blood oozing messily around fangs he wasn’t used to. It took him a while to get tidier. More controlled. Luckily, for him, there was a steady stream of victims, all courtesy of Hydra.

                He shudders, unable to repress the memory. Steve looks at him.

                “Just someone walking over my grave.” Bucky says.

                “So, what are we looking for?” Steve asks, after they’ve walked further. Bucky doesn’t know how Natalia spun it to him, so he stays vague.

                “He’s going to kill someone tonight. And it’s going to be messy. We’re going to stop him. Or, I’m going to stop him. And then you’re going to understand.”

                “You keep saying that. But you won’t ever just spit out what you mean.” Steve argues.

                “You know that film Barton made us watch? The Matrix? It’s like what that guy Morpheus says, you can’t be told about it, you have to see it with your own two eyes.” Bucky tries to explain.

                “That never made sense to me though, couldn’t he have just explained to Neo that he was living in a virtual reality?” Steve replies. Bucky’s momentarily stumped.

                “Huh, punk. I guess so.”

                “Yeah, I guess so too.” Steve says, all passive aggression.

                “You know words aren’t my thing.”

                “There’re a thousand dames that’d beg to differ.”

                “Not these days. You seen any dames hanging off my arm lately?” Bucky points out. “Turns out a bit of Nazi sponsored brain washing will really do a number on your silver tongue.”

                “Seemed to be working okay the other night.”

                Bucky sighs.

                “Steve, can you not?”

                “Can I not what?”

                “Bring that up. It was a mistake.”

                “Didn’t feel like a mistake.”

                “Well it – shit, move!” Bucky pushes Steve to the side, feels the searing pain of a projectile entering the delicate flesh where his metal arm meets skin. He looks down and there’s an arrow protruding from him, it hasn’t gone all the way through. Great. Just fantastic. Steve’s on the ground, staring up at him. Oh, shit.

                Bucky’s fangs are bared and his eyes have whitened in the heat of the moment. Steve’s looking at him like, well, like he’s seen a ghost. Almost, Steve, Bucky thinks.

                But there’s no time to pause. He snaps off the larger end of the arrow, leaving enough that removal will be unpleasant but it won’t impede his movement. He then mentally calculates where it must have come from, and is scaling the building one handed before Steve can even stand.

                He reaches the rooftop and finds a girl, dressed in standard Avengers wet work leather and Kevlar battle gear, and a thick metal collar around her neck, no seam visible. She looks at him, seemingly unafraid, but he can hear how fast her heart’s beating.

                “You missed.” He says calmly.

                She shrugs.

                “You know I’m not the guy you’re looking for?”

                “No?” She asks, gesturing to his face. “Because to me, one vampire looks a lot like another. Sergeant.”

                He recoils.

                “How do you know who I am?” He steps forward, places his metal hand around the cuff on her neck, as though that could protect her from him.

                “It’s adamantium, I wouldn’t bother.” She says.

                “There’re plenty of other ways to kill you. Don’t think I’m not creative.” Bucky warns.

                “You sure you’re not the guy I’m looking for? Because you sound sort of serial killer-y.” She says.

                He pushes her away.

                “I’m not. It seems we’re after the same guy. Who sent you?” He asks.

                “The Avengers. Well, The Young Avengers, officially. We’re the ones who’re going to be taking over whilst you’re retired on a beach in Florida, counting your wrinkles or whatever old people do. Not that that’ll be a problem for you, Mr Barnes, huh?”

                “The Young Avengers?”               

                “Yeah. We’re pretty cool. You remember that time the world nearly got taken over by parental gloop monsters?”

                “No?”

                “High five for us!” She says. “But yeah. I’m Kate, Kate Bishop. My friends call me Hawkeye. And you’re Bucky Barnes.”

                “We already have a Hawkeye.” Bucky can’t think of anything better to say.

                “I know. He’s like, a major annoyance. Thinks he’s better than me. Amateur.”

                “You did miss. I mean, just now.”

                “Point. But in fairness, I was a bit surprised by, you know, Captain America tagging along.” She pauses. “Oh! Is he a vampire too?”

                “I’m not a vampire.” A new voice comes from across the rooftop. Bucky winces. Steve walks over to them, face closed off, but he offers his hand to Kate to shake, which she does with gusto.

                “Is that what we’re looking for then, a vampire?” He asks her, not looking at Bucky.

                “Yeah. Did they have those in your day? Like, fangs, blood sucking, erm, that’s the main jist of it really, the rest is just made up. I mean, they’re not actually vampires, they’re sort of alternate dimension humans, but, argh, if America was here she’d explain it, but she’d be all smug about it, so probably best not. You know there are zombie dimensions too?”

                Steve shakes his head.

                “Of all the damn things, Buck.” He says. He sounds vaguely amused by the whole situation. Then he snaps back to attention.

                “So this guy, this vampire, is killing people?” He asks Kate.

                “Erm. Awkward. He’s killing people your friend here has fed on in particular. But Barnes doesn’t feed often enough to sate this new guy’s appetite, so we can’t predict his next move.”

                “You feed on people?” Steve asks Bucky.

                “Not now, Steve.”

                “When was the last time?”

                “Take a really wild guess, Steve.”

                “Shit.”

                “Did Captain America just swear?” Kate asks.

                “Why is everyone always so surprised? I was in the army.”

                “He’s really very impressive when he wants to be.” Bucky assures her.

                She quirks an eyebrow. “I’m sure he is.” She says. “But that’s neither here nor there. Barnes, you’d smell it, right? If he was feeding?”

                “Within a few miles, yeah.”

                “Then you’re our bloodhound. Pun totally intended.”

                “Did you, are we teaming up now? Is this a thing we’re doing?” Bucky asks, confused. “Because you did try to kill me.”

                “Honest mistake.”

                “There is an arrow in me.”

                Kate shrugs.

                “So what now?” Steve interrupts.

                “We wait for our shark here to sense blood in the water.”

                “We wait?” Steve repeats.

                “We wait.”


	9. Chapter 9

                “So why didn’t you just tell me?” Steve asks, settling down beside Bucky who has sat, leaning against a chimney.

                Bucky looks at him, aware that his face is still snarled up, that the arrow in his chest is painful at best, throbbing and sore.

                “I didn’t think you’d take it so well.” Bucky shrugs, and then winces.

                “’Til the end of the line, right? I kept imagining all these terrible things, what it could be, that you wouldn’t tell me. What could be worse than what’s already in your files? This? I think I’m a little in shock but it doesn’t even come close to the worst things I thought it could be.”

                “You know I’ve killed people. Lots of people.” Bucky grinds out.

                “I’ve killed people too.” Steve says.

                “Fighting the good fight. You never killed them just because you couldn’t bear the thought of their blood pumping through their veins so close to you, and knowing how fucking good it’d feel to drain them dry.”

                “Does it hurt?” Steve asks.

                “Does what hurt?”

                “The arrow. It looks like it hurts.”

                “Of course it hurts, does it matter?”

                “We need you at your best.”

                “You’ve never seen my best.”

                “I’d like to.”

                “You got a death wish, Steve? Stupid question.”

                “Come here, I’ll remove it. You okay with that?” Steve asks, and runs his fingers over where the arrow protrudes from Bucky’s skin, the wound sealed tight around it. Bucky shudders.

                “It’s going to be like creating a whole new wound. I heal too quick.”

                “I can be fast.”

                “Okay.” Bucky says, but he feels anything but. Steve’s too close, he can hear his heart beating its steady pace and the warmth of Steve’s fingers.

                “On three. One – “ And Steve pulls the shaft, wrenching the arrow free of Bucky’s body. Bucky lets out an involuntary growl, and Steve watches in wonder as the wound heals almost immediately, and then looks at the blood soaked arrow in his hand.

                “What happened to three, punk?” Bucky complains.

                “It’s out now. Hey, you don’t look so good.” Steve murmurs, as Bucky sways slightly.

                “Takes it outta ya I guess.” Bucky tries to smile. All his senses are heightened, and the hunger turns his stomach over.

                “You need to feed him.” Kate observes from her perch. Steve glances at her, then back at Bucky. Bucky’s face is shuttered closed, and he just shakes his head.

                “I’m not feeding from you Steve.”

                “I heal quick. My metabolism – “ Steve argues, already wrestling with his uniform to expose his throat. Bucky’s mouth goes dry.

                “It’s not that. Jesus, Steve, stop. Stop. I can’t feed from you.”

                Steve looks at him.

                “Stand up, Barnes.” He orders, and Bucky would, if he could. The annoying thing is he’s genuinely concerned his legs wouldn’t hold him.

                “That’s what I thought. I’ll be fine, Buck, just, please. We need you. We still have to catch this guy.”

                Steve forces Bucky’s knees down from where he’s curled them up against his chest, and straddles them, his thighs warm against Bucky’s, and he pulls his uniform down again, revealing the smooth pale skin of his throat, and the pulsing vein beneath.

                Bucky can’t help but lean forward, and Steve edges a hand onto the nape of Bucky’s neck, guiding him, until Bucky can feel the warmth of Steve beneath his lips.

                “God, Steve.” He chokes, wanting to push away. This is a boundary he was never going to cross. Natalia is going to kill him.

                His fangs are already exposed and razor sharp, and he drags them across Steve’s throat, and Steve actually whimpers. Bucky shifts his hips a little and finds Steve hard against him, finds himself unbearably turned on by the fact himself. He sinks his teeth in.

                Steve moans, and Bucky can’t help but echo the sentiment as the blood flows over his tongue. Steve’s blood is Steve, his life story, memories and dreams and hopes all spelt out as Bucky drinks. He’s never known the name of someone he’s fed off before. Knowing it, knowing Steve, is the final piece of the puzzle. To put a name to the life, to the sensations he feels, the pure _love_ he feels, it’s like nothing he’s experienced before.

                He has to keep shifting his fangs, biting again and again as Steve heals, and Steve rocks against him, seemingly unaware or past caring that Kate is on the roof with them. Bucky can feel himself growing stronger, can feel Steve’s blood repairing his tired body. Steve lets out a gasp followed by a shuddering of his entire frame, and Bucky takes one last long gulp, before following suit, weak and dazed against the brick of the chimney.

                He presses a kiss to Steve’s neck, bruised but no longer bleeding, and Steve rests his forehead against Bucky’s, and Bucky can feel the sweat there, smell the salt of it and the smell of sex in the air. Steve is loose limbed and his breathing is slow. Bucky savours the moment, running his tongue over the inside of his teeth. He can feel his fangs receding, and he imagines his eyes have returned to normal. Steve shifts, and presses a hard kiss to Bucky’s lips. Bucky pauses for a moment before responding in earnest. They pant against each other, until they hear a cough from across the rooftop.

                “If you two don’t stop right now, this is going on Instagram.” Kate says, holding up her phone displaying a photo of the pair of them. They pull apart, and Steve grimaces as he moves his legs, underwear somewhat more uncomfortable than it was before. Bucky accepts a hand up, and yeah, that’s going to be irritating. Steve smiles at him, reaching a hand to his own throat, where the bruising is already fading.

                “Is it like that for everyone?” He asks Bucky. Bucky shakes his head.

                “Only if I want it to be. For them. Never for me.” Bucky says. “It feels better, knowing they’re getting something out of it.”

                “So I’m special.”

                “Seems so, punk.”

                “We can do that again some time if you like, you know.” Steve wrangles. “Rather than you feeding on the streets.”

                “You know this crosses so many boundaries I’ve set for myself.” Bucky can’t help but smirk.

                “Oi, boys, I’ve got a visual. Seems the smell of Cap’s blood must have lured him in. He’s headed this way. You want to do this on the roof or in the streets?”

                Bucky and Steve glance at each other. There’s a dead-end alley that could be useful. “Streets.” Steve says.

                “Okay then. Let’s get this over and done with and then I can go home and bleach my brain.” Kate says, and fires a grappling arrow into the brickwork of the building opposite and swings her way to street level.

                “I’ll see you down there?” Bucky asks Steve. Steve nods, then pulls Bucky close, placing a chaste kiss on Bucky’s lips.

                “Stay safe.” Steve murmurs against Bucky.

                “You too.” Bucky replies, before jumping off the roof.


	10. Chapter 10

                As it turns out, the vampire really isn’t very intimidating, though he tries to be, as he steps into the alleyway. His teenaged face lights up when he sees Bucky, and then he double takes when he spots Steve a few steps further back. Kate holds her bow steady the entire time, as the teenage vampire seems to have a fanboy moment in his own head, before it spills out into real life.

                “Oh my god, it’s really you! I knew it! I knew if I could just get your attention then you’d come! I’ve read so much about you! I mean, I had to dig, but there are others like me, so it wasn’t so hard really, you’re like a legend, man. Oh my god. Can I shake your hand? It’d be an honour.”

                Bucky looks at him, perplexed. _This_ is their serial killer. The teenager holds out his hand for Bucky to shake and Bucky just stares. Slowly, the teenager drops his hand.

                “It’s cool, it’s cool, man, whatever. You’ve got that whole aloof vibe going for you, it’s cool. Erm. Why is Captain America here? Is he a vampire too? Because that would be. So. Cool. Like beyond words.”

                “You killed innocent people.” Bucky says slowly, precisely. The teenager appears to wilt slightly.

                “Only to get your attention! And you kill people too! I know you do, on your missions overseas, it’s all in the reports, they try to cover it up, but I’ve read them.” The boy argues back.

                “The people I kill are never innocent. And I never kill on American soil. It’s just stupid. You know what they’d do if they caught you?” Bucky says, steely and cold.

                “How could they catch me? I’m, like, super-fast. I reckon I could take Captain America here.” The boy takes a step forwards. Bucky visibly bristles.

                “You touch him, you even think about touching him, and you’re dead before your next breath.”

                “Okay. Chill. God, I thought you’d be cooler than this. The forums said you were cooler.”

                “There are forums? Dedicated to him?” Kate pipes up, laughing.

                “On the Deep Web, yeah. You just have to look for them. Why are you pointing an arrow at me? Hey, why is she pointing an arrow at me?” The boy asks, eyes darting between Kate and Bucky.

                “Because she means to kill you. Because you have killed innocent people. And we don’t really stand for that.” Bucky explains, as though talking to a five year old, which, Steve supposes, to Bucky, he is.

                “Hey, no, you can’t kill me! I’m only nineteen! That’s not fair! I was just doing it to get your attention!”

                “That hole you’re digging yourself looks awful deep.” Bucky comments.

                The boy shrugs.

                “Whatever. You want to take me down, try it. You won’t win.” And then before Steve can blink the vampire has his arm tight around the adamantium collar around Kate’s neck. There’s a flash of movement and Bucky has the teenager by the throat, holding him in the air with his metal arm, whilst his other hand holds a titanium stake to the boy’s sternum.

                “You don’t get it, do you? There’s no way you come out of this alive.” Bucky says, lips pulled back, fangs exposed. The boy’s face morphs to match Bucky’s, but it’s in vain. Bucky pushes the stake a little harder and the boy whimpers.

                “Please don’t kill me. Please.” He begs, tears rolling down his cheeks. Bucky shakes his head.

                “Sorry, kid.” He says, and drives the stake home. The boy stills instantly, as blood pours from his chest. Bucky drops the body to the ground. He turns to Kate.

                “You okay?” He asks her.

                “Fine. Are you?” She replies.

                “Yeah. It had to be done.” He shrugs, wiping the stake clean on his trouser leg before slipping it back in its holster.

                “He was begging for his life.” Steve says quietly.

                “He was a monster. He would have killed again.”

                “We could have taken him in, taught him to be like you. Good. A good person.” Steve argues.

                “It took me seventy years to get where I am today. And I’m still nowhere near what I’d define as ‘good’. Steve, sometimes, you just have to pull the trigger.” Bucky sighs.

                “Hawkeye? Get your team on the Deep Web, I want those forums pulled. I don’t want to be an idol for young vampires. This can’t happen again.” Bucky orders, and she salutes lazily.

                “On it, boss. This it for tonight? Because, gotta say, it’s been… weird. Weird is definitely the word I’m going with.”

                “It’s been a pleasure working with you.” Steve says to her as she passes him.

                “Same, Cap. Though I don’t think I can look you at you in the same way ever again. I mean, dude, I know he’s attractive, but he’s a vampire. And I was. Right. There.” Steve has the good graces to blush.

                “I’m sorry about that. You won’t post that photo?” He asks.

                “Already deleted. I don’t need the memories. See you, boys.” She waves, and walks off, bow slung over her shoulder.

                Steve wanders up behind Bucky, rests his head on Bucky’s shoulder. They stand there for a moment, just letting the night’s events wash over them.

                “You’re remarkably calm, all things considered.” Bucky murmurs and Steve feels the vibrations of Bucky’s voice.

                “I could say the same to you.” Steve replies.

                “I really thought I’d lose you, if you saw what I was. What I’d been. He wasn’t wrong, I have killed people. A lot of people. I still haven’t reconciled that with my conscience.”

                “You’ll never lose me. I promise Buck. You are a good man. You’ve always been good. I’ve always known that about you.”

                “You’re a sap, Steve Rogers.”

                “And you’re a vampire, Bucky Barnes.”

                “And I think a part of you likes that a bit too much.” Bucky teases.

                “I like knowing nothing can hurt you. That’s right, isn’t it? You’re basically immortal?”

                “It all comes down to the heart. As long as it’s beating, I’m breathing.”

                “So I’ll never lose you again.” Steve breathes out.

                “But I could lose you.” Bucky admits.

                “Don’t.” Steve says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

                “I’ll hold you to that, punk.”

                Bucky takes Steve’s hand in his and pulls him round so they’re face to face. He presses a soft kiss to Steve’s lips.

                “Say, punk, want to help me get rid of a body?” He whispers.

                “You sure know how to show a guy a good time.” Steve laughs.

                “You have no idea.” Bucky smirks and Steve’s pupils dilate.

                Bucky laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm taking the month of december to upload some of my old fics in the hopes it'll motivate me to write again. if you have a particular one you'd like to see reuploaded, leave a comment and i'll see if i can dig it out. 
> 
> and i'm at new-salem.tumbr.com, if that matters to you in any way.


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